


doce

by catmanu



Category: Men's Football RPF, Political RPF, Political RPF - France 21st c.
Genre: Fluff and Smut, Hotel Sex, Idiots in Love, M/M, Manu is slightly creepy, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rimming, griezmanu, or something like that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-20
Updated: 2019-10-20
Packaged: 2020-12-26 23:44:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21109154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/catmanu/pseuds/catmanu
Summary: Twelve hours with Antoine and Emmanuel.





	doce

[6:00]

The sun is rising; though their room does not face east, the cold light of early sunrise has finally reached them,warmed up, and turned golden.

Emmanuel has been awake for an hour or so. It’s strange, so much more indulgent than he likes his image to allow, to be only just getting out of bed after this long.

There are certain qualities this bed has, though, that other beds of his have lacked. 

He opens the curtains just a bit but pays little attention to the ocean below. Instead, he turns back to the bed.

The sunlight shimmers on the wall and plays across the peaks and valleys of the rumpled bedsheets and finally comes to rest in the curls of the cherub with whom he’s had the ultimate luxury of sharing this room, this bed, this night, this day.

Antoine sleeps. From what Emmanuel knows, he’ll continue to sleep. It was in some recent video, something whimsical done by Barça’s tireless social media team, that he’d said his ideal wakeup time was noon, wasn’t it? He doesn’t need to study Spanish to know what “doce” means. The decadence of admitting such a thing in public...

In his mind, an angel ought to sleep for as long as he likes.

Emmanuel comes back to the bed and holds a finger underneath his cherub’s strong nose. It’s not that Emmanuel is worried that he’s died, not at all. The proof that such a creature, such a being, such a _human _is truly a living, breathing thing...

[8:00]

Antoine sleeps with his mouth open. He snores, but gently, humbly, the same way he speaks to the press.

Emmanuel goes over to the desk and picks up one of his blue folders. He’ll do some work to the sound of the angelic snores. It’s an interesting take on domestic bliss, but that’s the only sort of take on that he’s interested in.

[10:00]

The sunlight is still soft, but it’s got a certain edge to it. It will be hot out soon enough.

Emmanuel tires of his work for once. He tosses the folder he’s been looking through back onto the pile, sits gently down on the bed, and rolls the sheets down till they settle around Antoine’s knees.

He is hard in his sleep in a way that wouldn’t look out of place being censored by a fig leaf.His pillow is damp; the cherub drools when he sleeps, apparently. Emmanuel reaches a finger over and wipes some of the moisture from the perfect lips.He holds his finger up to his own lips then; why not?They kiss often enough.

Something rich and delightful and obscene stirs in him and he stretches out on his side next to his champion, his star, his Renaissance cherub who he thinks is quite lucky he’s not living in the time of the Greek gods, because with such perfect and effortless beauty he’d surely anger some god or another. Probably many of them, as prone as they were to rage and jealousy.

The rich and delightful and obscene stirrings prompt him to begin to stroke himself. He doesn’t need a fantasy. Looking at Antoine’s sleeping form, the private sight of his arousal, of his body’s most primitive workings...It’s like being a voyeur, but in a museum after hours, and could anything really be much better than that?

After he comes in an undignified way all over the sheets he passes out for about 15 minutes. He doesn’t know whether he actually slept or was just somehow overcome by spending this long with Antoine in such a quiet, beautiful setting, but either way, sleeping like that in broad daylight is not really his vibe. As Antoine would say.

If you spend enough time with him, as Emmanuel has realized, some of his mannerisms sink into your brain. If you’re not careful. It’s thrilling to not be careful.

[12:00]

_Son las doce_ is how you say it in Spanish, and his angel stirs in bed, a perfect machine in his own decadent way.It’s exactly noon. 

“Mr. President...” mumbles his beautiful star, his arms lazily reaching out.

“I’m right here, my angel,” he says. Antoine scoots over and slings a leg over and between Emmanuel’s. His cock is still warm and hard; it grinds up against Emmanuel’s thigh. Antoine begins rutting against him, his eyelids fluttering open and closed, open and closed. Emmanuel’s breath hitches at every sight of his bright blue irises. He can’t help himself.

“Would you like some help?” he asks, and from the cherubic lips comes an anguished, drawn-out “_Yesssss…please…”_

For others, “help” might have meant a helping hand, literally.For them at the beginning of it all this would have been true as well.But this morning—afternoon—_las doce—_Emmanuel knows just what the heated, living sculpture rutting on his thigh likes, and he slides a finger into him.Lube isn’t necessary; Antoine seems like he’s still loose and relaxed from their antics of last night. Emmanuel isn’t sure if that’s really possible, physiologically speaking, but he’s not about to call his family of doctors to consult with them.It’s erotic enough to think about and in his mind, that’s what counts.

“Mmmmfff,” Antoine says, and his erection is hot against Emmanuel’s leg, the bit of wetness at the tip easy to feel.His tongue is, of course, wetter still, and it’s running over Emmanuel’s chest as he pants.Emmanuel flashes back the sight of him drooling on his pillow.He’s so unselfconscious, today and always.That in itself is beautiful. “More.”

“I know you can be more articulate than that, Antoine,” Emmanuel says.He works _that spot _with his finger, and Antoine shivers in his arms.“Tell me how you’re feeling.”

“_More,_” Antoine insists.

“No, I’m not putting two fingers inside you right now.You just woke up.I’d rather be gentle.”He kisses a clump of disheveled curls that’s encroaching on his mouth. 

“_Okayyyyy_…I’m feeling…I’m feeling like…like…”Emmanuel crooks his finger up and his cherub makes a sound a bit like a sob as he suddenly comes all over Emmanuel’s leg.

“I didn’t know you were _that _close,” Emmanuel says, stroking his head to soothe him as he twitches and shudders. Sometimes Antoine’s climaxes are very theatric. He thinks about his post-goal celebrations. _In bed as he is in life. _

Antoine sounds much more awake now. “Surprise!”

Emmanuel shakes his head.

“Can you kiss me now, Mr. President?”

“I should be the one asking you for the honor, my angel,” Emmanuel says, and they press their lips together for a moment or two or ten that don’t last long enough.

“I have to confess something,” he continues. “Our sheets are...well...slightly less clean than they were last night. I was looking at you as you slept this morning, and...”

“Huh? Oh..._oh. _You, ummm…you jerked off to me while I was sleeping?That’s creepy,” Antoine said, and he giggled.“You’re a creep, Mr. President.What if I told someone?”

“They’d wonder how you knew,” Emmanuel says, and Antoine makes a face that Emmanuel kisses.“But perhaps that wouldn’t be a bad thing…I suppose revealing our secret would give your anti-homophobia remarks even more legitimacy, and legitimacy is important.”

“Legitimacy…” Antoine says, his voice trailing off.

“Legitimacy.Should we look it up?”

“Shut _upppppp._I know what it means.”

“Did you just tell your president to shut up?”

“Damn straight I did, cause he was being kind of a dick,” Antoine responds, and Emmanuel can’t tell whose smile is bigger.His own is making his face hurt.Every once in a while he still wonders who he would have been had he grown up _normal, _with a quotidian childhood and an average adulthood, and sometimes with Antoine he catches a glimpse of it.

With Antoine it comes easily.

[14:00]

Antoine carefully pulls his laptop out of one the two bags he’s brought with him.It’s adorned with garish stickers like something that might belong to one of his granddaughters, or to a man who’s very secure in his own masculinity. He brings it over to the bed.

“What are you going to play?” Emmanuel asks.

“Football Manager,” Antoine says, rolling onto his stomach, and Emmanuel chooses to look into his clear blue eyes instead of down at those two perfect, plump cheeks that are now in view.It might be just a game, but the cherub’s eyes, awash in the colors of the Aegean, maybe the Adriatic, shine brightly when he says its name.To him it’s of the utmost importance.

Emmanuel understands. 

“I’m playing as Liverpool right now.”

“I know you admire them,” Emmanuel says.

Antoine smiles. “What about you, what are you reading?”

Emmanuel knows it’s a serious question. Antoine is considerate. “It’s called _Drive Your Plow Over the Bones of the Dead.”_

“Woah,” Antoine says, his eyes widening. “That sounds kind of badass.”

“I guess it does,” Emmanuel said. “The author’s just won the Nobel Prize in literature, too.”

“That's cool,” Antoine says. “You have good taste.”

“You’re proof of that.”He smacks his cherub lightly on the butt and appreciates the way it moves when he does.

Then they get to their respective interests, not touching, but lying side by side.

[16:00]

Two hours later and they’re still lying there quietly, doing what they love and doing it together.

But then his angel closes his laptop.

“We only have a couple more hours,” he says, and pouts.

Emmanuel says a temporary goodbye to Olga Tokarczuk, setting his book down beside the bed.He takes the cherub in his arms. “How would you like to spend them?”

“I don’t know,” Antoine says. “I mean, I...I have training tomorrow morning so nothing that will make me come in limping, you know?”

Emmanuel traces over the rosary tattooed on his arm, and he feels blood rush to his cheeks as he thinks of something new.

“I’ll see if I can get you relaxed enough,” he says softly.

“Uhhh, you could use lots of lube?” Antoine reaches for the bottle on the bedside table, such blunt evidence of how they’ve spent their time. “Like, a butt-ton. Okay, that was funny."

But Emmanuel barely hears whatever ridiculous thing Antoine has just said.Lying on his stomach, he lifts his cherub’s legs and pushes them up, up, up.Luckily he’s in good shape, nice and flexible by necessity, otherwise this would be more difficult.

“Wait, wh—Mr. President?” Antoine says, but Emmanuel is still barely hearing anything, spreading Antoine's legs just wide enough to expose the hole he’s been playing with off and on since yesterday evening. Well, _p__laying with _being an understatement in some cases.He’s never _looked _at it up close like this, but for once he’s not here to do any looking.This is not something he’s ever done before, so he says a quick prayer to no one that he does an adequate job, and places his tongue where other parts of him have already been.

It doesn’t taste like anything, but it’s clearly a big deal, because Antoine yelps and drums his heels against Emmanuel’s back.“_Mr. President!!!_Holy sh—Mr. President, what are you doing?”

Emmanuel licks delicately at the rim.It shouldn’t require an explanation. 

_“_Oh my Godddddd, you’re eating my ass!”Emmanuel sighs internally._They probably heard that all the way down in Barcelona._

“Antoine,” he says, “to take a leaf out of your book, _shut up_.”

Antoine’s legs twitch around him.

“Do you want this, my angel?”

There is one silent moment. Then: “Yes,” his angel breathes.“It’s just my first time…”

“Mine too,” Emmanuel says.There’s no shame in admitting something like that, and Antoine reaches down to stroke his head.

“Could you keep going…”

Emmanuel snorts quietly and puts his tongue back to work, circling the rim again, and then while using his thumb to gently stretch Antoine open just a bit, he dares to dip his tongue inside.His cherub gasps and groans and the muscles in his thighs strain and it’s all reminding Emmanuel of Antoine’s Catholic-themed tattoos—a blend of the profane and sacred, but on the highest level possible. 

He is worshipping his champion’s body where most do not; there is no higher honor.

Antoine is groaning loudly now as Emmanuel gently fucks him with the tip of his tongue.Emmanuel can’t see, but he imagines his toes are curling.His fingers definitely are, digging into the sheets.He reaches a hand up and grips the base of his cherub’s cock so he doesn’t get ahead of himself, and then replaces his tongue with his lips, giving Antoine little kisses while continuing to spread him open just a bit wider with his thumb.

“Mr. President!”Antoine is nearly howling, taking his theatrics to a whole new level.“Mr. President, _please, _fuck me, I n-need it, I need you inside me, _please!_”

Emmanuel moves his mouth away.His prayer to no one seemed to have worked.“This is a whole different side of you, Antoine.”

Someone less enlightened might think Antoine’s face is frozen in agony, his eyes the widest Emmanuel has ever seen, his perfect lips parted nearly as wide, but Emmanuel knows better. They're both more enlightened than ever.

When he helps his shaky cherub onto all fours, he slides into him nearly effortlessly.Neither of them lasts long. 

[18:00]

And just like that Antoine is showered and packed up and is toweling off his luscious curls one last time before the car arrives to take him discreetly back to the airport and to Barcelona.Emmanuel’s not certain if they’re treating him well there, but he’ll have to find another time to ask.

“You ate my ass,” Antoine says, as he’s said many times since the act occurred.“I can’t believe my president does things like that.”

“It’s not like I make a habit of it,” Emmanuel explains, “but when inspiration hits…”He kisses Antoine’s stubbly cheeks.It’s hard to stop doing these things when he knows it’ll be a while before they see each other again. 

“You should be inspired more often,” Antoine says.“I mean…not to be kinda horny about it, but.”

“I’m afraid it’s too late for that,” Emmanuel replies, and then they’re rubbing their foreheads together and bumping noses and grinning—

Emmanuel’s phone vibrates.The car is ready.

“I wish you could come back with me,” Antoine says.Emmanuel feels—_startled _isn’t the word, but something like that.They don’t usually leave each other on such a sentimental note.“Like, just for a day.You could watch us train.That would be cool.I mean—I know it’s impossible. But it would be cool.”He smiles.“Like, just _doce horas conmigo _or something.”

“Conmigo?"

Antoine winks and licks his lips.“With me.”

“Ah,” Emmanuel says.“Well…nothing is impossible, even with my schedule...”

His phone vibrates again.It’s hard to say goodbye to a Renaissance cherub, but this one will keep coming back.

Five minutes after Antoine’s gotten in the car, Emmanuel gets a message from him.He’s sent four emojis: a tongue, water drops, the notorious peach emoji that even _he _knows about, and the crying-while-laughing face.

_You are hopeless, _he wrote back._Now you’re going to be obsessed.What have I created?_

Antoine’s response is the perfect response. 

_Shut up, Mr. President._


End file.
